


Dirty Work II: Wait And See

by kalena



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-20
Updated: 2009-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalena/pseuds/kalena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Casey does the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/186032">Dirty Work</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Work II: Wait And See

**Author's Note:**

> The best lines come from JiM. Beta thanks to theamusedone, aukestrel, hexnessie, and sarren.

  
**Wait**   


  
_"Last night was nice, or at least it was nice if I wasn't hallucinating, and may I just say that you're really," indrawn breath through the teeth, "really good. But. What was up with the, uh," a hand gesture, "seriously, are you out of your mind? Why did you do that? Look, we need to talk about this. I know how much you hate talking, but maybe if I could see you after work, alone? Maybe at your apartment?"_

That's how it would go, Casey thought. He'd heard enough similar conversations between Bartowski and Walker, the Love, Love Me Do version, some through his earpiece and some out in the open air.

He'd miss half the shit going down in this complex if he didn't leave his windows open.

It didn't happen. It was like a dream come true.

In the morning Chuck gave him a lift to work, not even trying to ditch him. Wasn't that just Chuck all over? Too nice to live. Literally. Casey was armored for a waterfall of everything even remotely pertaining to sex, Casey, or other past -- or possible future -- sex partners. It would be a Bartowski word association frenzy. He'd almost rather take the bus. For him, sex was one thing, and talking was another. He sure as hell didn't want to talk about it.

Instead, Chuck gave him a long look as he came out of his apartment. It was a strangely focused and assessing look, an unexpected parry to Casey's wall of indifference.

Chuck had a lot of looks. Most were facial Silly Putty; eyebrows like alien pets, teeth that could illuminate a topo map at nautical twilight. This one he'd never seen. It made Casey feel like leftovers that had gone just a little off. Few people made Casey uncomfortable, even for a moment . . . least of all Chuck, the most untrained, unsophisticated James Bond wannabe ever.

So he ignored it.

The trip to Buy More was uneventful, if he called the not asking a non-event. Maybe Chuck really did have a Y chromosome. It was proof of how freaked out the kid really was. After sex, Chuck was in denial. That didn't mean he wouldn't want more. He was a male in his prime, going on five years without a fuck. He couldn’t hold out for long. Hell, the kid had a sheen of sweat right now, and it wasn't that hot this morning.

Good. Because Casey came so hard in the shower that he pulled a muscle when he slipped, and still the only thing he could see as hot water pounded down his chest, swirling spunk down the drain, was the sweet smile tilting Chuck's kiss-heavy lips as he looked up and leaned in to suck. He'd never had a view so crystal clear of something that never happened.

Sitting within arm's length, thank God inhaling only the faint smell of soap, that was enough to get him going. If nothing else, it reminded him of his own shower. Casey wore his polo untucked on purpose, and was damned glad of it. As they whirred down the highway in the Nerd Herder together without speaking – who'd a thunk it? -- he couldn't stop screening grainy porn on the inside of his eyelids.

The one with Chuck strolling into his apartment, crossed arms pulling off his faded Beam Me Up, Scotty t-shirt, grinning the impish grin he only gave his friends. "I know what you want." Or the one where he came to the door nervous and horny, about to jump out of his skin, until Casey hauled him in with an arm around his neck and a hand on his package. Or . . . hot, eager, but a little shy, asking, practically stubbing the floor with his toe. Soft, easy touches, kissing until they both gradually lost it, no control left, grabbing and biting and humping each other like animals.

The fingers of his right hand twitched almost imperceptibly. So did his dick.

Twenty minutes in the car together, and Casey only lasted another two before heading off to the can for some relief. It was going to be an uncomfortable day if he let it stand. This hard-on wasn't going to go away. He didn't mind taking care of business, just this once. In short order he'd be getting as much as he wanted. It had been a long time. Ilsa was years ago.

And he'd been the NSA's most successful killer ever since.

That didn't guarantee a steady stream of bedmates. In fact, it tended to eliminate them.

Killing was good. He liked it. Once in a while, it was _this_ good. But it scratched a different itch. Sometimes you gotta take one for the team, and sometimes you enjoy it. It wasn't so bad to visit the bourgeoisie again. It was a vacation to an exotic place, but he wouldn't want to live here. He kicked a doorstop under the entry door.

His cock was so sensitive he felt the vibration from the metal zipper. "Damn." It really had been a long time. He licked his palm. You'd think there'd be something slippery around here, but no. Pink hand soap? _Really_ no. He might have to go buy a travel-size of slick if Chuck wigged out for much longer.

Oh, God, that was just so . . . good. He took in a deep breath as he slid his palm gently up the tender skin of the shaft. Oh, oh, fuck. He nearly whimpered in the outbreath. The extra-sensitive skin, the soreness of a third-time grip, like being seventeen, like being hard for days. It was a pleasure all its own . . . and one he'll be very, very glad to share. He'll do the kid every day, twice on Sundays, fuck until neither of them can stand.

They'll do it in the locker room after everybody else is gone because neither of them can wait, the employee lockers banging as hard as they are. He'll give him a helping hand in the Crown Vic in heavy traffic just to kill the boredom. Casey smiled. Nobody ever looked. Chuck would get a real thrill out of it. He had to have a wild streak, or he wouldn't be part of their little ménage a trois. He'd be begging to get packed off to a bunker by now.

They could park along some windblown chunk of ocean and walk out there with the gulls if they wanted privacy. Chuck would suck him off with their shirts flapping and the sun hard on their heads, lips sealed to Casey's cock, knees sinking into the sand. The wind would carry away their sounds with the crush of the waves.

Slowly he worked himself, careful not to squeeze too hard. The precome was adding a little extra slick.

Casey'd blow him on lunch hour in the Castle with the surveillance turned off. Or leave the cameras on, just turn the feed off, so they could have video. There were mirrors down there; he could watch Chuck's face when he fucked him from behind, hand tight around that needy red cock.

Preferably while Walker served fro-yo upstairs to a bunch of love-struck skateboarders.

He gave himself a helping hand, cupping his tight balls, pressing the sensitive spot behind them with his fingertips, unable to suppress a groan. He loved to feel them pull up, to scrape the tiny ridges lightly with a thumbnail.

That pretty ass would be all his. He could slide his hand over the smooth curve of it, kiss every square inch, put his lips where it mattered most. How loud would Chuck squeal when he opened him with his tongue? Casey's fingers tightened, sped up. He'd push him face down on the bed and go for it; Chuck would never see that one coming. He'd shriek like a girl, hump the sheets helplessly, come all over the bed because it felt that good. Or maybe Casey would pull him up onto his knees instead. Make him wait. Make him beg.

It wouldn't even take fucking. Casey could make him come with two fingers and a kiss.

He'd come, come so -- hard -- oh, Christ. Yeah. Jesus, that almost hurt. To him, spine-tingling meant horror movies, but the Chuck pornfest left him nerveless and shaky. He braced one hand on the tile wall, milking himself through the spasms, then waited while he got his lungs full again. Good thing he wouldn't need his brain cells again for a while. They were crumpled into his handkerchief.

Ah, nothing like employment at the Buy More.

Casey threw away the wad of cotton and sprayed the place down with Lysol. He wasn't the only one to jerk off in the staff restroom, just the only one who cleaned up after. On the way out, he almost laughed at his flushed cheeks in the mirror, looking so much like the choirboy he used to be.

Later on, he caught Lester giving him the eye. Anna almost said something, then changed her mind. Morgan pretended he wasn't looking over racks of merchandise at him. Nobody spoke to him, but his customers bought every damn thing he suggested. It must have been the big smile on his face. As for Chuck, Casey intercepted another long look that afternoon. He grunted and turned away.

That night, Chuck didn't show up. That was okay. Casey didn't expect him for days. But there was no late-night visitor the next week, or the week after that. It was almost insulting. It did have some advantages, though. Listening to Chuck's heavy breathing and soft noises at night was more fun knowing he had to be in the jerk-off reel.

Casey's right hand was getting the best workout since sniper training.

Maybe Chuck was weirder than he thought. Seriously, _nobody_ didn’t want a blowjob.

Four weeks later – four weeks that destroyed his car, bastardized his memories of Ilsa, and, thanks to Colt, nearly ended all three of them – he still hadn't come back. Casey quit jerking off, no matter what his dick wanted. It was more frustrating than happy-making. After Colt, Chuck thanked Casey for preventing the Big Splat. A lot. Said, "I love you!" . . . Jesus wept. But he didn't come back. Apparently the Bartowski theory of love was only worth yet another long look.

Casey hated waiting.

Worse yet, he was beginning to understand there was nothing to wait for. He couldn't figure out why. Sarah still wasn't putting out. He was sure of it. And Chuck couldn't possibly know he'd been sighted down for the headshot. Casey winced. With luck, he never would. That would break the entire op. Not a chance in hell of keeping him in line after that. But Casey couldn't seal the emotional deal without at least a little cooperation.

It was the last long look that finally tipped him off. He should've known it from the start. A geeky kid like Chuck learned social skills from Final Fantasy. Probably hadn't even noticed that engraved invitation. He’d never have the balls to come to Casey.

Damn it, why did he always have to do all the work?

  
**And See**   


He's blocking out some ideas when he hears the knock. He has to open the door before he believes the security camera. What fine dining establishment used to own that white jacket, anyway? "Nice rose, Chuck. Classy."

"I have it on good authority that it'll get me laid.” The tone – and the sickly smile -- doesn't go with the retro-suave white jacket and the flower.

Looks like he won't need to do all the work, after all. Good thing he showered and shaved after a tough afternoon workout. He wouldn't want to rough up that delicate skin. “Come on in, Romeo.” He takes the rose. “I don’t want people seeing you on my doorstep with flowers.”

“Afraid the bonsai might get jealous?”

Casey snips the stem at an angle and puts the rose in water. “Birgitta knows who’s boss.”

“That still doesn’t tell me which one of you is.”

“What are you doing here?” Way to shoot himself in the foot. If the last of the red-hot lovers wants some, it's his duty to be all over it. With or without the old school dinner jacket. The nasty cologne is gone, replaced with one Casey recognizes as Awesome's. He wonders if he's going to get hard every time he smells Awesome from now on.

Chuck plops down at the kitchen table. “It’s Sarah.”

If there was something wrong with Sarah, he'd have the memo. Oh. Wait. “Shot you down, did she?”

“Like a Patriot missile. If at all possible, I’d appreciate it if you could keep the pointing and laughing to a bare minimum.”

Any mocking is drowned by a flash flood of irritation. That stupid cunt is endangering their fucking mission. What the fuck was she thinking? Too bad he hadn't eliminated her in the beginning. Now he'll have to salvage the goods. He's obviously the only one with his eyes on the prize.

On the other hand, he should be thrilled, not angry. After all this time, she's finally driven the mark right to him. That thought doesn't pound down the spike of his blood pressure.

Chuck is staring away now, eyes open but not seeing. “I don’t hear you laughing.” His dull gaze fixes on the coffee pot, and the monotone bangs on Casey’s last nerve. “That’s got to be bad. Worse than I thought. When you've given up calling me an idiot, there’s no hope left.” He looks bewildered, sitting alone at the anonymous Ikea table in his drooping jacket.

“Here, drink this.” Handing Chuck two fingers of Macallan, he takes a sip of his own. He almost spits it back out when Chuck tips the glass and gargles down its precious contents. By God, he doesn't even cough.

“Hit me again," Chuck says, thumping the coffee mug on the table, not quite on purpose. Then, belatedly, “Please.”

“I’m about ready to.” He rolls his eyes and pours a refill instead. “Careful with that stuff. It ain’t grape soda.”

“I know.” He sips this time, his eyes more aware but even less happy. “I just . . . I thought if I came over here like this, you’d make it easy.”

Casey smirks. “Easy? What's that?" Fuck, they were they still talking. He _should_ be making it easy. He should have Chuck bare-ass naked by now, humping his leg like a poodle. Why did he always give in to his deep desire to screw with this nimrod’s head? “You think I should make it easy for a guy who doesn’t come over to visit until he gets dumped?”

Chuck’s face whips around to follow his movement. “I'm not as stupid as you think! I know what you did! Come on, Casey! I know you don't like babysitting me. You’d rather be flying planes and shooting people in a country where nobody speaks your language. It's simpler. I get it."

True.

Chuck really isn't as stupid as he looks. Casey dissects him visually, hellbent on finding something more, almost expecting Chuck to somehow pick up on the stare and acknowledge it, man to man. But there isn't that much going on in there. Like with the Intersect, Chuck doesn't know what he knows.

Instead, he slumps bonelessly over the table, scrubbing his hand along the shiny faux-wood surface. It makes an incredibly annoying squeaky noise. "Your bosses told you to do me, didn't they? There was probably video and editing."

When he looks up, Chuck doesn't have quite the usual glow of bovine innocence. Casey doesn’t regret the things he's done for his country, but this is pushing the line. Or . . . maybe it's for the best.

"They remixed it with a music track and backup vocalists and choreographed some dancers, then they screened it for their buddies in their home theaters."

Not true. But it is a damned good guess. Chuck can have that one.

"You'd never touch me except under orders."

False. But two for three is better than he ever expected.

"Seriously, some days work really does blow, in every possible way. It makes getting screwed over at the Buy More look totally better.”

Trust Chuck to take his baby steps into cynicism with no shoes on. It doesn't matter who’s fucking him; it only matters who’s determined to keep him alive. And that’s Major John Casey, NSA, not a hot blonde bimbo.

“Chuck,” he said deliberately. “Listen to me. Nobody ordered me to suck your cock.”

No cow now. He'd never put the words 'withering look' and 'Chuck' together, but there it is.

“You went to seduction school and you passed all three times. I'd say you have plenty of practice, that you're capable of doing anybody for any reason. You could do it again. They could hardly complain about it.” Chuck swallows another mouthful of scotch and tilts his chin. “I don’t know why you would get me off, either for them or for you, and I don't care. There’s no secret you can’t get from me, free for the asking. Personally? I don’t have secrets. There’s nothing to tell. There’s never been anything to tell. But you, you did it anyway."

The poor bastard can’t say the word. And it isn't even the F-word.

“What I’m trying to say is, you could do it again." His voice cracks. "I’m asking you to do it again. I’m asking nicely. To be honest, I’m begging you. Please.”

There it is, the money shot. Payback for sitting around by the phone like a brain-dead teenage girl waiting for Chuck to call. Dicking around for weeks to find out if his wares were good enough for this pathetic dweeb who couldn't get laid in a Thai whorehouse without a diagram and a set of detailed instructions.

It doesn't feel anything like payback. He just hopes to God that Chuck won't start crying.

Then Casey finds there are worse things than seeing another man cry.

Chuck's face cracks like his voice, and if Casey thought he'd seen the real boy already, the one who doesn't have any guile in the first place, he was only close. Pain tears strips off everybody's hide. It's no different for Chuck. Casey knows what a flash is when he sees the endless spool of loneliness and longing. It connects. A live wire touches something in his lizard brain that makes him want to break that face. Put a foot in Chuck's back, shove him out the door and lock it, anything to end the misery. He wants to pry that lost expression from his mind's eye and forget they’ve ever met.

It isn't supposed to be like this. He isn't supposed to look at the insides of _innocent_ people.

He doesn't know what shows on his face that makes Chuck stand up, shoulders held stiff, back as straight as he can make it. One careful tap with the butt of his pistol would shatter him onto the kitchen floor.

"Never mind. It's fine. Really, it's not important. Nobody wants to drag work home with them, and I'm a real drag right now. Maybe I can get a rain check for your next orders. It could be this week! Somebody could decide in a few days that the most important thing on their agenda is to get me screwed royally. Oh, wait, that already happened. Forget I was here, you're probably good at that, and when they show this on General Rausch's big screen TV, hey, they think I'm some kind of insect anyway."

"I said, 'Nobody ordered me to suck your cock.' There _is_ no video. Do you copy?" He grabs a lapel in each fist and tips Chuck into his face. "Let's go, Spider Man."

"They're, they're arachnids, not insects! Um, easy, the jacket, it's rented –" but the cracks are already patching over with relief.

Somehow that changes the long-anticipated wall-slam into a kiss. The kiss turns generous, with Chuck’s full mouth soft under Casey’s. He gives it lots of attention, a long swipe at the bottom lip and a pinch of teeth at the top one. Chuck’s mouth is worth it. He can afford to be generous now that his strategy’s proven viable. Target acquired, he is establishing ties of allegiance with physical inducement. He’s getting the job done. Tactics are at his discretion. He can be extremely discreet. He edges his teeth along that strong jaw and sucks the pounding pulse under Chuck's ear.

Given how careful he was last time, he’s ready for a little fun, preferably in a place where his knees are safe. This time, he’s going to make sure sex happens again, early and often. One hand still clutching a lapel, he half-drags a dazed Chuck to the stairs and up. Right in the middle, Chuck stops cold. Casey loses his grip.

"Oh, God, I've been thinking about this for weeks. Forever. I can't believe I'm doing it."

"Why not? Afraid you'll get gay cooties?" Casey registers his own unintentional snarl. Wrong move. This is an operation. With this kid, you have to be direct. Even that might not get you anything soon. He should let it go. Do the deed. Forget the why. "Why didn't you come back?"

"I thought it was a one time only offer, no refunds or exchanges! Plus, I thought you wouldn't want it to get around." The eyes, peering up through long, dark, girly lashes, are too nervous. "In case, you know, anybody ever notices us together, or suspects we might be, I don't know, doing it."

Casey blinks. "We're together all the time already. It's sex, not national security." Mostly. Then he remembers the sheen of sweat on Bartowski's forehead on that lovely Pacific morning. "What, 'I could fuck you, but then I'd have to kill you'?"

"Maybe." Chuck looks away.

He laughs, a real, genuine laugh – now, that’s been a while -- puts a palm on either side of Chuck's slightly stubbled face, turns him, and kisses him again, slowly and thoughtfully. Chuck's mouth is a very nice place to be, with its savory hint of scotch. The teeth are a lot more appealing when they’re catching his bottom lip. His stance one stair above doesn't deter the kiss, but it isn't any trouble, either, to simply lift the man up a step. Chuck doesn't seem to notice at all.

Pulling away just far enough to talk, he says, "Don't worry about it," then goes back to that impatient mouth.

"Mmmmm?"

"Never mind."

Casey disengages the arms around his neck. There’s a pang of loss, but it does get rid of the jacket. After that, the t-shirt comes off easy, and the arms re-wrap themselves. The prod of a cock as hard as his own makes his abs clench and his hips drive forward. Chuck is all over him -- pushing, rubbing, kissing any bare skin he can reach -- holding on like he’s afraid Casey might toss him out the window any minute.

That comes with its own revelation. Chuck is big enough, and strong enough, to hold him. It isn't like he doesn't get off on being bigger and meaner than everybody else. He lives by it. Someday he'll probably die by it.

But he doesn't have to live for it.

He tightens his arms around Chuck, enfolding him. A big body up against his makes him feel . . . ordinary. More ordinary, anyhow. He likes it. It’s a square inch of common ground. Even Carina, who busts his chops every goddamned time, still feels breakable. It puts him off stride. Casey's hug isn't meant to flatten, it’s only to calm Chuck down a little. "Slower," he murmurs into the nearest ear. "We've got lots of time."

A pair of wild eyes stares at him from under a mess of hair as Chuck speaks with their foreheads touching. "We don't." Chuck's oddly level tone doesn't go with his near-frantic look. "There is no time. There is no place. There's no universe where we could ever be together in any way. If this is going to happen, it has to happen now. Right now. No waiting. Before it doesn't happen at all."

Casey swears he can see waves of tension curling away from Chuck’s naked torso. "What the fuck?" He pushes Chuck back to get a good look. "What's screwing with that head of yours?" He leaves off the obvious _besides me_.

Chuck is smaller all of a sudden. It has to be some kind of optical illusion.

"You'll crush me like a cigarette butt. Not on the outside," he answers Casey's eyeroll, "on the inside. I know, I know, crushing is your business, but I want to be with you anyway. Right now. I can't live without it. And the faster we get it over with, the less it'll hurt."

That is so fucked up he wants to plug his ears with his fingers and go _la-la-la_. It also has a white horse bravery he’s never seen in anybody but Chuck. Not so much loyalty or even love, although there’s plenty of both . . . more like throwing yourself on the train tracks because they’re so dazzling the oncoming train is worth it. Having that pointed at him is like looking down the muzzle of a Desert Eagle.

In Chuck’s hands, it’s dangerous.

There is no possible answer except, "Don't worry about it."

He inhales, meaning to get on with fucking the man stupid, like stupid isn't already on the table, when something completely different comes out of his mouth. "If all possible worlds exist, then this is not the one true world. Our counterparts are everywhere, all making their own rules. Just like us." Son of a bitch, he is seventeen again, back in that dead-ass philosophy class, needling the prof and any of his mite-brained classmates who actually give a shit. It's the one class he failed.

Plus, he’s channeling Morgan Grimes. By the look on Chuck's face, he’s thinking the same thing. Casey doesn't give a rat's ass about time and space. Life and death, those are constants. They give contrast to variables, he learned that in college, and the only important variables are velocity and trajectory. It isn't what he believes; it’s what he knows. What he believes in has a safety that makes it more dangerous.

"And if that's true," he finishes, "then we make our own time and we make our own space. Got it?"

As the words play through his own head, he realizes how completely he's lost his fucking mind. It’s a bunch of crap, and he still wants it to be true. That’s why, when Chuck reaches the top step, holds up his left hand with Casey's folded in it and slides his other palm up to the crest of Casey's shoulder, he puts a hand on Chuck's hip and glides them into the bedroom. If they’re going to fuck, they might as well dance.

He dips Chuck all the way to the comforter, but doesn't drop him. They’ll start this on their own two feet. Chuck's hands are colder than they ought to be; he doesn't know why, when he’s burning up. A cool fingertip skids down his chest as the buttons come open. He wonders if there's a universe where he wouldn't suck in a breath at that, feel the quiver deep in his gut, curl his fingers into fists so he won't reach out and grab.

It's hardly the first time. Nothing to get goosebumps over. There's nothing new under the sun, and the sun's a lot hotter in Manila. But it's never been like this. Not with someone so shiny and new. It’s a good thing he took a deep breath. He holds it like a talisman while Chuck takes his shirt off. The last time he got sized up like this, it was a Hong Kong tailor. Hands measure his inside arm, the length of his back. He could tell Chuck not to bother. He's always been off-the-rack -- 44 long, killer, 18" neck, interchangeable barrels, double-dyed bastard.

That doesn’t seem to be what Chuck is looking at.

How could he get more naked than no clothes? There’s still something separating them, a barrier between him and Chuck's fingers, even as they warm up from doodling across his abs. For shit sure there’s no way to tell Chuck. As bright as the kid is, how to even explain there are disguises that are more than skin-deep?

Fingers inch under the edge of his waistband. He shivers, once. His skin feels funny. Not the wrong size, but the wrong kind, like it ought to be somebody else's. He would give it away if he could. Not the first time for that, either. He was twenty-two, covered in a civilian's blood. An hour in the shower couldn't clean it off. He could be covered in Chuck’s some day.

Chuck shouldn't touch him. A man so transparent you can see right through him needs less experienced skin, skin that isn't its own baggage. He has an acid trip urge to just take it off.

"I like your skin," says Chuck quietly, talking to the curving scar over his left hipbone. "It shows everything. All your secrets are here. They have stories. You can tell me some time."

That’s the thing. He _could_ tell Chuck, maybe, some day.

And maybe, if he does, he won't have to kill him.

When the jeans and boxers rumple down, Chuck's on the floor staring at Casey's dick. Half of Casey's still trying to hide behind it, but the rest is manned up, standing there as naked as he can be.

Chuck is right, in a way. It's not possible for John Casey, Major, Serial Number 486-50-6226, to be standing here like this. And if it's not, then maybe he can't be that person now. Because he sure as hell isn't leaving this room. "Look, before anything else happens, do something for me."

Shit, he’s going native, and he’s afraid he might never get back.

The hands that stroke up and down his legs are changing reality, changing his skin, making it different, less like a fake passport to the real world. More like the skin of someone who can be standing in this bedroom with Chuck on his knees, tongue dipping out to wet his lips, staring straight at his dick. Chuck's eyes gleam. Either he _really wants_ to suck cock, or he's analyzing the volume problem. His mouth is just a little swollen, pouty. Casey reaches down and touches it. Chuck startles, his face turning up.

"Sure."

Chuck doesn't even ask what, like he wants to do whatever Casey wants. Warm breath steals over the crown of Casey's cock. It makes him tense up, but he doesn't flinch. "My name is Jacob." He swallows, then goes all the way. "Jake. Use it." He tries not to make it an order. He's not sure if that works. Chuck stares up, and it's so much like the vision he had a few weeks ago it's like there's no time in between.

"Your real name." Chuck's eyes are round, like it's fireworks at the beach. "Jake. It's a good name. I like it."

"Not in public." His changing skin loosens a little to fit.

"No." Still looking up, Chuck squeezes Casey's ass. "Only here."

Chuck licks up Casey's dick and slips his mouth around the head, slurping half the shaft into his hot, wet mouth while Casey is still blinking. It's a good thing his ass is already next to the bed. It's convenient when his legs stop holding him up. Chuck shuffles forward on his knees.

It's so hot and wrong, it almost makes Casey's head explode; he'd pay a month's salary for the instant replay. If he'd ever thought about it, crawling would've always been on the playlist of Bartowski porn. He wonders if Chuck likes it. Hopes he'll do it again. Shifts backward on the bed so Chuck has to crawl farther. After the kid's at his crotch, he pulls all six foot one of hard-core geek bodily onto the bed, onto him.

If Bartowski wore a belt, Casey would've been neutered by the buckle. Instead, he gets a faceful of worry.

"Did I do it wrong?"

Only Chuck.

"Any more of that, it’ll be a damned short night." Casey's not lying. He’s not as young as he used to be. But it's more about staying in control. "It's my turn."

He loves the weight on top of him, loves the surprise chest hair. Despite the fur on his arms, Casey had a crazy idea Chuck would be a hairless freak of nature, forever fifteen. He's not. He's a man. He's even got a little substance. Those controllers must work more muscle groups than he thought.

"Jake," says Chuck, smiling down into Casey's eyes.

If Casey had a heart, it would've kicked a beat right then. His arm is around Chuck's neck anyway; he pulls him down for another kiss. The fact that Chuck can't see his face is just an added bonus. Chuck is sucking on his neck, kissing his eyelids, it doesn't seem to matter to him. It doesn't to Casey. Anywhere Chuck's lips touch is a good place.

"What do you want?" Chuck's voice in his ear is deeper and rougher than Casey's ever heard it.

It snaps him out of the happy sex fog. This isn't about how he gets his ashes hauled, it's about what he _wants_. What he wants is to score big in this game they're all playing. Chuck's playing too, even though he doesn't know any of the rules. And he's playing at gunpoint.

It's a terrible thing that can't be undone. Chuck's better off with him than any of the other options. So tonight's all about making Chuck a very happy man. It's the last best hope of keeping the human Intersect alive. If they both come their brains out, so much the better.

"I want you to come so hard the USGS posts it on the internet."

"I . . . " Chuck manages, "I volunteer for this mission!"

Casey rolls them over and takes his time getting to know that chest while Chuck wriggles. The pale skin is smooth over what could become a serious set of pecs. The nipples are pink and delicious, soft against his lips. They seem to like the gentle tug of his teeth. The surrounding hair is crisp and springy against his cheek.

"Oh, that feels so -- " A gasp. "More, please, wow, nipples, who knew? I thought it was only women who had this much fun! God, yes!"

He gives them plenty of attention, holding Chuck down with his body to stop the thrashing. Chuck takes the opportunity to clutch Casey’s shoulders, rocking up against him like he can't help it. The babble is his very own cheerleader. It inspires him to nuzzle at the nearest armpit; Right Guard unscented, so he doesn't lick. He lets the babble go past _"Ew! Don't do that! What are you doing? Wait, yeah, that's okay, that’s awesome, oh!"_ to suck at the inside of an elbow, slide down to bite at the mound of flesh at Chuck’s thumb.

By this time, Chuck is trying desperately to pull him back up.

"Bored now?" Casey asks, straight-armed, looming over him. He knows how to loom, and he’s good at it.

Chuck laughs up at him in sheer delight, so happy that Casey grins right back. Infectious. Yeah. He is _so_ infected.

"Right, I know you want to slow down, but you're killing me! Maybe we can pick up the pace, because I can't stand it, you'd probably have to tie me up to keep my hands off you." He’s busy proving his point, pressing his fingers up Casey's braced arms like he can't even believe them. Casey smirks as Chuck turns bright red. "No, that's not what I meant! I love your body, it's so beautiful and I just want to touch you! Honest, don't get the idea I'm kinky or anything – "

"You'd like it," he rumbles, and kisses him. Sliding back into that mouth has to be one of the finest pleasures his tongue ever had. He drops small kisses onto those pretty, pretty lips, Chuck reaching up to catch them until their chins bump. "I know I would." He thought he couldn't get any harder. "Shuck the jeans, boy toy, and let me see you."

Losing a fight with his jeans, Chuck almost sprains his own dick trying to get the shorts off. Casey grabs an arm before he can damage that so-important part by falling flat on his . . . face.

"Some people are coordinated enough to do that while they're on the bed." Teasing, but there's still a smirk behind it.

"Speed seemed like it was of the essence," Chuck admits. He isn't the least embarrassed.

"Save it for Indy. Get your ass over here."

"You want my ass, Jake?" It's more uncertain than it ought to be.

Chuck's on the bed, crawling again, and oh, yeah. "Oh, fuck, yeah, I want it." He wants it almost as much as he wants Chuck to stay alive. He hopes they work out to be the same thing. "Face down on the bed!" he barks, and to his surprise, Chuck drops without a word. "Spread 'em!"

Jesus fucking Christ. There he is, the most beautiful man Casey's seen since he was in Special Tactics, and he's got his eyes closed, legs open wide, not even knowing what Casey's going to do to him. Not even caring. Needing it. Wanting it.

Or . . . not. The eyes are screwed up tight, jaw clenched, face turned away.

He lowers himself onto that rigid body and murmurs into the available ear, "Do you know what I'm gonna do to you?"

Chuck lets out a small squeak. He'd have levitated spontaneously without Casey on top of him. "Yeah, I saw some stuff on the web. Oh my god, some of those pictures are scarier than you are, except if I'm here for sex, I guess this is it. What I don't know is how much it's going to hurt." His eyes are still shut.

"Not enough to keep men from liking it since the beginning of time." Casey breathes along the nape of Chuck's neck, making hash marks and curlicues with the tip of his tongue. "You're not exactly a human sacrifice to my nightmarish lust." He kisses the line of Chuck's shoulder. None of his fantasies had covered the nervous virgin scenario. They'd moved right to the kill.

"Well, when you put it that way, I feel so much better," Chuck says, a little breathlessly. The silky duvet cover is doing its work. "That's the whole thing, though. I was the one who came here."

Chuck squirms again, his hips working just like in the porn. Casey's dick is caught between those cheeks. A sweet thrill catches him, every move. And they haven't even got to the good part yet. Casey flexes his own hips to give them both the added extra. Chuck groans and says, "I asked for this. You know what you're doing, we play it your way. You're the man who can take your balls and go home."

"Sure, pay attention for sex but not in a hail of bullets." Yet Chuck sounds so humble that Casey's beginning to think this was a bad idea. Given how high and tight his balls are, that says a lot. Where the fuck did this guy go to school, Date Rape U? "Do you do that to girls, Chuck?"

"What?" Situation normal: complete and total incomprehension.

"If they want to fuck you, do you get to hurt them?"

Chuck's face is so paralyzed with horror it takes him a couple seconds to get his mouth working. "No! No, I would never do that! I mean, not that any want to sleep with me."

"I don't do it either. Not with women, not with men. So relax. That's an order, soldier." It loses impact with the rise of Chuck's spine in the way of his lips.

"Mmmm. That I can do."

A relieved Chuck is a relaxed Chuck. By the time Casey's finished working his shoulders and pulling four-finger streaks across the low terrain of his ribs – not ticklish – everything about him is limp, except what Chuck is busy grinding into the bed. Pulling his hips up and back gets a mewl of protest. It's nothing compared to the noise he makes when Casey licks from balls to backbone, then does it again and again.

He pushes his face into the crease and goes for the target, lapping hard, pushing in, out, in, splayed hands holding Chuck up and holding him open at the same time. If his hands weren't full, he suspects they'd be shaking. His incursion from the flank meets no resistance. The surrender shouldn't surprise him, but it does. It's hard to believe even Chuck can let his guard drop so completely.

Chuck tastes good, smells good, and his wordless soundtrack is driving Casey wild. It isn't like he has any inhibitions; his body is a tool. He uses it. Here with Chuck, Casey's body is skin and bone and need. He's been ignoring its demands -- the molten magnesium burning in his gut, the dull hurt in his dick, the overwhelming need to _take_. He can't ignore it any more. Five desert years stretch out behind him, too, and it's been dry, so goddamn dry.

"Oh, God, Casey, Casey, Jake, please!"

Chuck is trying to get up on hands and knees; it's not working like it should. He's sweaty, unfocused, question marks of hair going everywhere. His pink face and chest glow like an airstrip beacon. He's ready. He's so ready. Casey is, too. He lets Chuck weave a little on the bed while he reaches over for a condom and slick.

Two lubed fingers, as big as they are, go in easy.

All it takes is pressure around the circle, some extra in the spot that makes Chuck moan and shove back, and they're good to go. He snubs the head of his dick against the opening he's made; then, slow and careful, he pushes inside. He almost doesn't ask, "Is that – you all right?" Chuck is all around him. Everything he can smell, feel, taste; everything that's important. So hot, so tight, so much like being wanted.

Chuck whimpers, but Casey does a little more massage around the rim with a thumb while his other hand's being good to Chuck in front. This time, when Chuck surrenders, Casey almost gives in to the whiteout behind his eyes. He wants nothing more than fast and hard and _now_. He spent a month doing Chuck in his head. Christ, he was dreaming about fucking him. Tonight the operation is live.

Chuck's "Wait, wait," is the only thing that could slow him down. "I just – I need a minute, okay?"

"C'mere." He rubs Chuck's lower back, easing him upright slowly and holding him close. It gives him a chance to enjoy the body in his arms while he takes the edge off Chuck's discomfort. That long cock responds beautifully to a well-lubed grip, and Casey loves the feel of Chuck leaning back against him. Leaning on him. Maybe they could be good.

His hips start to move by themselves. "That better?"

Chuck draws in a long breath and his body seems to ripple against Casey's.

"That's it. That's good, hot stuff, breathe." He sucks on that soft, inviting neck, and it seems to help both of them. The slow slide into Chuck is making him dizzy. He can hardly hear over the white noise in his ears. He knows he's got that sweet spot on the end of his dick when Chuck wails, jerking back almost hard enough to topple them. He overcorrects, banging back into Chuck, and then he can't stop.

He's still got enough presence of mind to keep wringing the moans out of Chuck, to buff the crown under his cupped hand until Chuck's crying out over and over, jets of spunk filling his palm. He knows to hold on tight and not let go. He's still got all that, but he can't breathe, he can't stop the harsh painful noises that spill out, and he can't control his need to pound into that perfect ass until orgasm body-slams him.

Some instinct has them hitting the bed with Chuck alongside instead of pancaked underneath. He's so wrapped up in the aftermath it wasn't on purpose. Muscles singing, head spinning, he's got American Idol on the Body Channel. It takes him a while to get with it. Then he notices Chuck's fine tremors. They're still plastered together back to front; Chuck's not trying to get away. Good sign.

Chuck's not talking. That's not as good.

The first fuck can kick your ass.

When Sensei popped his cherry, he was an idiot like Chuck, only he thought he was tough. Hell, he thought he was straight. Elation, confusion, hero worship was all heaped up on top of a walking hard-on. Men fucking wasn't okay then, and he grew up Catholic. He was messed up for weeks before he could pack it all away.

"Hey." He fights the pillows for arm space. The comforter has come undone. Now he has an arm to hold with and one hand to push Chuck's hair off his face. They're still together where it counts, so he pulls out as slow as he can. The sharp exhale says Chuck feels it. He rubs Chuck's belly low, just above the pubic bone. "That was great." Casey doesn't know what else to say. He feels like he should say something more. "You're," he pauses, and there's nothing else that really covers it. "It was awesome."

"You, too." It sounds sincere.

"Clench your muscles a little, that'll help." A shift, then a cut-off sound. "Not that hard."

He disengages to get rid of the condom. It's a bigger effort than it ought to be. While he's sitting up, he checks Chuck's ass. He brushes the white skin on the hipbone with his lips while he's down there. It was a hard ride, but things look okay. A little puffy, but okay. He might not be sitting down in the morning. He hopes the neighbors didn't call the cops when Chuck started yowling. Casey slides up for the front view.

Chuck's studying him, unusually solemn. "Wow. Just . . . wow."

When Casey pulls him close, he smiles, not a grin or anything like it, and reaches for a kiss. Casey turns his face away.

Chuck's smile self-destructs.

"I just had my tongue up your ass, you ding-dong."

Chuck's hoarse and quiet. "If you can do that, I can do this."

He takes Casey's mouth soft and sweet, sucking and licking until Casey gives in and opens up. That's so Chuck. They kiss and nudge faces, rubbing like cats, the pleasure of skin rolling over him. Chuck is holding him, lightly strumming his back, stroking his ass. Casey wants to stretch and roll around in it. He thinks there's something about Chuck his skin is responding to, all by itself. He can feel the buzz from head to toe. It's no mystery. If there's one thing he's learned, it's that things take on the mark of their maker.

Skin By Chuck wasn't in the plan, but it's realistic collateral damage. Cleanup comes later. He's still feeling blowback, so it's not scaring the shit out of him. Yet.

Yeah, this is going to see his metric ton of shit and raise him a fuckload. Suddenly he wants to shoot Walker. This clusterfuck ought to leave a mark on her, too. It was insane to leave this job to Casey.

“Can I stay?”

Hopeful silence.

Casey doesn't answer. Chuck keeps talking, anyway. Casey knew he would. In the quiet, his subdued whisper sounds louder than it really is. It's keeping Casey from his well-earned rest.

"I only ask because, you know, I lie to everybody now. Everything's fake, nothing's real. Not even me. I haven't felt like myself in forever."

Casey knows. Until tonight, he hadn't caught a glimpse of himself for fifteen years.

He'd as soon not have.

God, he's tired.

"I'll never have a real relationship again. Or, you know, a _first_ one. This is at least one real thing,"

The silly bastard thinks nobody will ever love him.

Fuck, _everybody_ loves him.

"You don't want me," Chuck's mumbling. "But you liked making – having sex. This is real."

“Stay,” he manages, and pulls Chuck halfway on top of him. His body is real, too. They're both real and human and warm. Every faraway instinct shrills _no, no,_ but he says it anyhow. "I want you to."

If Casey wasn't so nearly folded into sleep, he'd be more disturbed that Chuck is only two for three.

[Dirty Work III](http://archiveofourown.org/works/186056)


End file.
